“Could be. We had better do something, in case they do fly over, make some sort of marker they can see. Let’s do it now. Collect some rocks, and we’ll make a message on the beach. We’ll make an SOS sign. I’ll scratch it out and we’ll put rocks around to mark it. We should put it on the other side of the island, where that camera can’t see us.”
The boys laboured until it was too dark to see, and were up at first light, collecting more rocks and palm fronds, to further mark out their message. A sizeable SOS sign emerged, and as the day wore on, they continued scouring the island to find additional material to add to it. They kept away from what they imagined to be the range of the camera.
Another two days passed with no further sign of a plane, and the boys’ optimism turned to despondency.
“They’re not coming back. They’ve missed us.”
Viktor tried to gee up his younger brother.
“Come on Michael, they won’t give up looking. What they do is make up a grid pattern, fly up and down, and you know dad will never give up looking for us. It will come back.”
He was right. On the third day, this time early in the morning, they heard it again, this time much louder. Then the plane flew directly overhead. Within twenty minutes, Peters heard the report. He telephoned Sven Hendricksen with the news, and the coordinates.
“Sven, I think we have them. The search plane spotted two figures and an SOS in the sand on a small island off the north east coast of Spain. The nearest major airport is Santiago de Compostela. I think the Spanish airforce will send a chopper to pick them up, if you ask them nicely.”
Viktor and Michael first heard, then saw, the plane high overhead. When it circled and came down lower they knew they had been seen, and both ran out onto the beach waving blankets wildly, then watch silently, as the plane dipped its wings, then disappeared.
“Do you think they saw us?”
“Of course stupid, you saw the way it circled, then wiggled its wings. It saw us, Michael, I think we are going to be rescued.”
It was almost midday before the throbbing pulse of the Spanish air force Supa Puma chopper, filled the air over the island, then lowered onto the beach, alongside the SOS sign. Viktor and Michael covered their eyes from the sand swirling under the rotor, then, as it subsided, raced to greet their rescuers. A few hours later, they touched down at Santiago de Compostela, where Frederik’s private jet had landed a little earlier.
Frederik and Helena were waiting, and rushed out to embrace them as they climbed down from the chopper. It took some reassuring before Helena accepted they were in good health. They actually looked healthier than before the kidnapping, a little slimmer, but brown, and fit.
“I am surprised you don’t smell awful, it’s been almost two weeks since you’ve had a proper shower.”
“Mother, we have been swimming every day. Okay, there was no soap, but we looked after ourselves, we’re not babies.”
Frederik’s emotions were mixed. The elation and relief on hearing the boys were found, then reinforced when it was relayed they were safely in the hands of the Spanish airforce, a message received mid air as they flew south to the Spanish air port, had overwhelmed him at first, but now it was being replaced by a cold anger.
He and his wife had been through hell, fearing the worst, and long buried memories of his parents heads, displayed on stakes, had kept flooding his mind. Neither he, nor Helena, had slept properly since the kidnapping, and both were near exhaustion, whereas both boys appeared fit and well, which was a relief. They were safe! That was paramount, but a second emotion that was foreign to his nature, began to grow. Anger!
How dare they! How dare criminals put his wife and himself through such torture, to say nothing of the terror the boys must have felt? They must be made to pay for this! They must be brought to justice. Whoever was behind this crime, had to pay for it. First, he would take Helena and the boys for a holiday somewhere, for a week or two, to try to get over the past two weeks, but then he had work to do. He also must talk to Brent Peters as soon as possible, both to thank him for his remarkable work, and to discuss what could be done about the criminals. He must also let Dr. Wong know the good news about the boys.
That the work they had accomplished thus far had been destroyed, was unfortunate. No, worse, heartbreaking, but perhaps it could be replicated, and all might not yet be lost. He must do more to protect his family. He would talk to Peters about that as well.
Sven Hendricksen breathed a huge sigh of relief when word came through the boys had been picked up, and immediately phoned Peters to inform him, only to learn Peters was behind the rescue. How Peters had discovered the boys whereabouts intrigued him, and as soon as the dust settled, he intended to quiz the American how he had achieved it. The Swedish police had thrown all their resources into the search for the boys, and drawn a blank. It was annoying the American had upstaged both him, and the Swedish police force, but it was certainly good news the boys had been found, and were safe.
“Sven, can I ask a big favour?”
“Go ahead.”
“Could you keep this under wraps for a while. No press release. There is some unfinished business I want to tidy up, and it will help if we can keep this to ourselves.”
“I’ll have to inform my superiors.”
“Yes, of course, but perhaps you could prevail on them to keep mum, for now.”
“I’ll do it.”
Peters replaced the phone, then made a call to Frederik Sorensen.
“Yes of course, I’ll do it now.”
It wouldn’t hurt for a bit more weight be added to the request to the Swedish police upper echelons, to suppress the news of the boys rescue, at least for now. He hated kidnappers with a vengeance, and to thwart them was the very best kind of reward he could have. And, where possible, punish them.
Sorensen had not paid over the one hundred million dollars and the kidnappers would be furious and frustrated, but they wouldn’t try it on again, not for a while anyway. They would know everybody’s guard was now well and truly up. It was a shame about Sorensen’s work in his laboratory going out the window, but maybe that could be resurrected, in time.
There was now something urgent he had to do, and he had to act without delay. He picked up the phone, and began a series of calls.
28
Matteo Bramboni peered at the screen intently, but the picture before him remained unchanged. No sign of life, or movement, appeared. It had been hours now since his camera had last caught a glimpse of the boys, and by now they should have re- appeared. What was going on? Were they up to something?
He picked up the phone to speak to Nicollo Abello, who he had nominated to watch the monitor. It required several rings before the phone was answered, and Matteo judged from the slurred speech at the other end, Nicollo had been drinking.
“Nicollo, have you been watching that monitor like I told you? What’s going on? I can’t see those brats moving around. Have you seen them lately?”
Nicollo had not seen them, because he had not been watching. Sitting, staring at a monitor with nothing happening, was boring, totally deadly, and he had lost interest after the first ten minutes. He set up his laptop next to the monitor to watch porn movies, only occasionally glancing across at the monitor, and not registering whether he saw the boys, or not. He was not going to tell Matteo that.
“Yeah, I saw them just a few minutes ago. They are all right.”
Matteo did not believe him. Nicollo could be unreliable, and Nicollo, drinking, was as good as useless.
“I haven’t seen them for a while now. You keep watching that screen, and as soon as you see them, you give me a ring, you understand.”
“Sure, sure I’ll do that. There’s no need to worry Matteo, they aren’t going nowhere. That island is better than any slammer to hold them.”
Bramboni put down the phone, but he could not take his eyes from th
e monitor. Those boys were worth one hundred million American dollars, and he had to be sure they were safe. He fell asleep watching the monitor.
Abello shrugged when Bramboni disconnected the call, and for a few minutes, he, too, watched the screen for signs of movement. He was not concerned. The security offered by the island was foolproof. No one went near that part of the world, it was way outside the shipping channels, and was a perfect place to keep the two brats. Mateo had been pretty smart about that, he had to admit. He poured another drink, and went back to his movie.
Several hours later, Matteo woke up with a jerk, and cursed himself for falling asleep. Again he picked up the phone to speak to Abello.
“Nicollo, you didn’t ring me. You haven’t seen the boys? I still can’t see them.”
Nicollo was now worried, not about the safety of the boys, but his own. Matteo would be angry with him for not watching that screen.
“Matteo I am sorry, I forgot to ring you. Yeah I saw them, they are there alright, both of them. There is nothing to worry about.”
“Nicollo, those two boys are worth one hundred million bucks. You had better be telling me the truth. You sure you saw them?”
Nicollo decided he had better stick to his story.
“Sure I saw them, I tell you. Both of them. They are safe and sound, no worries.”
Matteo was a little reassured, but a niggling worry remained. Nicollo had been drinking. Maybe he was lying. He decided to sit and watch the screen, until he saw something happening. Twelve hours later, his eyes burning from exhaustion, Matteo knew something was wrong. There had been no sign of life from the island. The boys had not come back for food or water. He had better do some checking.
Giovanni Ascerbi was on stand by, ensconced in a rented cottage in Spain, near the chopper base, available in case anything needed to be done on the island. It would cost plenty to have the chopper go out just to check on the boys, but it was a fleabite out of the one hundred million, and he, Matteo Bramboni, had to be sure they were secure. He made the call to Giovanni.
29
Both Frederik and Helena had fallen asleep as their jet headed back to Stockholm. Viktor and Michael were dozing, also drained after the emotions of the day. Frederik’s pilot was reluctant to wake his boss, but he was given no choice.
“This can’t wait, I have to speak to Frederik now, it is most urgent. Wake him up.”
The pilot knew the man at the other end of the radio was the American, responsible for finding the boys, and he decided he had better do as he was asked. He moved back to the cabin, and shook Frederik by the shoulder. Bleary eyed, Frederik undid his seat belt, and followed the pilot to the cockpit. He listened to what Peters was saying, and nodded.
“I’ll get Viktor, so you can talk to him.”
He went back to bring Viktor to the cockpit. Viktor listened, spoke for several minutes, answered some questions, then returned to his seat. On his return, a curious Frederik quizzed him.
“Brent was happy?”
“I think so. He told me what he wants to do, and I think it should be okay.”
Frederik had already approved Peters proposal.
“It will be good if he can pull it off.”
Viktor nodded. It would be good.
Back in Stockholm, Brent Peters worked quickly. He did not know how much time he would have, but he needed to get men on the ground, on the island, before the mafia returned to check on the boys, and with one hundred million dollars hanging on it, he didn’t think it would take them long. The nearest men he could call on were in Liverpool, in the United Kingdom, over three hours by jet to the island. There was insufficient time to get them down to Spain commercially, and into a chopper, to hop over to the island. The paperwork involved getting visas, plus weapons, through customs, alone presented an insurmountable stumbling block. He ran his plan past Frederik, who immediately nodded his approval, he would foot the bill. His only real option was potentially dangerous, and could put the lives of his men at risk, but he could not see another way.
He outlined the hastily concocted plan to the team leader, and pointed out the risks. There was only the briefest delay, before the answer came. Lay it on.
Four hours later, a cargo jet roared down the second runway at John Lennon airport in Liverpool, and swung south. The charter pilot was bemused at what he was carrying, it seemed like something out of a war movie. Six men in combat clothing, armed with assault rifles, sat in the hold, nursing parachutes.
His instructions were to set course according to the coordinates he had been given. He had to locate an island in the middle of nowhere, and those crazy bastards intended to parachute onto it. The only identification he had, other than the coordinates, was apparently an SOS on a beach on the island. He had to positively identify that, before they jumped. That could be tricky. He would need to get down low enough to see the sign, then climb quickly to give them height for the jump. He thought, five thousand feet should do it.
Giovanni Ascerbi had been irritated initially, when Matteo informed him he had to remain on stand by, to fly to the island if something went wrong with their monitoring system. It was a waste of time. The boys were secure, nothing would happen to them, but Matteo had insisted, so he had flown to Santiago de Compostela, to find somewhere to stay. The finca he rented was comfortable and private, and the landlady, Camila, who serviced the house and its guests, was very friendly. It seemed her husband, Pietro, worked too hard, was always tired, and drank too much, and Camila was happy that such a fine, strong man as Giovanni agreed to pay her a good rent for her house. She showed her gratitude warmly as Giovanni settled in, and he ceased to be irritated.
Camila decided she should check on the house every day, just to make sure everything was in order for her guest, and Giovanni was showing her into his bedroom when the call came from Matteo. Matteo was such a worrier. Giovanni tried to tell him that everything would be as it should be on the island, but Matteo had insisted. He put down the phone, and decided there was really no urgency, Camila had already started to undress, and needed his attention, so he would arrange the chopper, later.
It was several hours before the helicopter eventually landed in the forecourt of the finca, to pick him up on route for the island. Giovanni decided to take a couple of his cousins as a precautionary measure, while another cousin flew the aircraft. The chopper could carry three passengers besides another cousin, who was the pilot, and eventually Giovanni, together with his three cousins, headed out across the Spanish countryside, then to sea, for the island.
Ascerbi saw the SOS on the beach almost as soon after the island came into view, and his heart quickened. What were those brats up to? He would give them both a thrashing when he landed, and make them take that sign away.
“Go down low, and fly over, before you put it down, I want to have a good look.”
The pilot nodded, and the chopper descended to one hundred feet, then hovered over the island.
“Where the fuck are they? Can you see them? Where can they be hiding?”
There was no sign of life to be seen.
“Get down there, they must be hiding somewhere. I’m gonna kill those little bastards.”
The chopper put down on the beach, near the boy’s sign, and Ascerbi and his men jumped out, and headed towards the trees. Suddenly, the sand around them came alive. Peters’ men jumped from the shallow pits that had hidden them, shaking sand from their clothes, and throwing away plastic sheeting that had covered their weapons. Two of the team had hidden, concealed in bushes under the trees, and these now confronted the three Italians, who suddenly realised they were surrounded. No shots were fired and it was over in seconds.
Ascerbi knew when fighting was not an option, and he raised his hands. His two companions followed. One of Peters’ team waved his rifle at the chopper pilot to get out of the helicopter, and the astonished pilot was not inclined to
argue. The four occupants of the helicopter were quickly handcuffed. Sandy McAlister had lead Peters’ team, and he was feeling chuffed. His boss would be pleased, their hastily contrived plan had gone off like clock work, they had the villains, now all they had to do, was figure out was what to do with them.
The team had stashed their gear under the trees, and hidden it with bushes, and he retrieved the satellite phone to report in. Peters had made it clear, he wanted whoever came to the island to be taken alive, if at all possible, and that had been achieved. He listened, as Peters outlined what he had in mind.
Brent Peters heaved a sigh of relief. It had worked. His team had beaten the Mafia henchmen to the island, and captured four of them, including the helicopter pilot, who was probably involved.
He decided to keep this information to himself. What he had in mind for his captives would not sit well with Sven Hendricksen, so he would tell him about the captives later, perhaps.
Getting those captives from the island to Stockholm presented a headache. The Spanish authorities would not take kindly to a number of unauthorised men, without proper documentation, suddenly presenting themselves at the airport. It might be possible to fly them back in Sorensen’s own jet if he could get them past the airport authorities, but that presented a big problem. Alternatively, he could arrange for a boat to pick them up. There might be another way.
Peters itched to shirtfront the captives, to find out what he could about who was behind the kidnapping. If possible, he would like to bring them to justice, either before a court of law, if that were possible, or by some other arbitrary means, and after reflecting for a while, he decided to ask to use Sorensen’s plane to fly him to Spain, and remain there on stand by. He would go to the island himself. Frederik Sorensen listened to Peters report, and his eyes glistened.
“I would like to come with you. I was going to take Helena and the boys for a small holiday, but I will put that on hold for a while. I want to see for myself, these people who would kidnap my children, and threaten to kill them.”
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